‘I’ve been watching videos,’ Ruth added, ‘but galumphing around the house crashing into the furniture just isn’t going to cut it.’
While channel surfing, I’d caught occasional episodes of So You Think You Can Dance, Shall We Dance? and a couple of other dance contest shows myself – what Paul likes to call Unreality TV – but I’d rarely been inspired to rise from my comfortable chair and take a spin around my living-room carpet.
‘Hutch was big into ballroom at Ithaca College,’ Ruth said, ‘and I think it would mean a lot to him.’ She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward me. ‘I thought maybe you could recommend somebody.’
‘There’s the Naval Academy Band,’ I said after giving it a moment’s thought. ‘Some of its members moonlight with combos on weekends, but other than that, I don’t know any bands, Ruth.’
Ruth shook her smartly coifed head and grinned. ‘A dance instructor, silly. I’ve already signed up the band.’
‘You are scaring me, sister.’
‘I’m serious, Hannah. Didn’t you work with someone last year on Dance for the Cure?’
‘Right,’ I said, remembering. ‘Kay Giannotti of J & K Studios was one of our sponsors.’ The fund-raiser at Loews Hotel on West Street had been a huge success, but I’d sulked on the sidelines, a proper little wallflower. Paul had declined to go, citing finals that needed grading, assuaging his guilt by forking out a healthy check for the cure instead.
‘Chloe takes lessons at J & K, too,’ I added. ‘I’ve picked her up a couple of times. The studio’s off Chinquapin Round Road.’
While I bragged about my granddaughter’s last dance recital, Ruth padded barefoot to the bookshelf and hauled down the Yellow Pages. She plopped the book on the table and thumbed through the pages until she got to Dance Instruction.
Yipes! The girl was serious.
Ruth snapped her fingers in my direction. ‘Paper and pen?’
I yanked open the junk drawer and found a pencil stub and an old carry-out menu, then watched as she wrote down the address and phone number on a blank space above ‘All You Can Eat Special – $9.99’. She handed the pencil back. ‘I’ll check to see what classes they offer.’
‘I’m holding my breath.’
‘Be serious, Hannah! Wouldn’t it be great to see everyone waltzing around the…’ She closed the book with a thump. ‘Shit. The dance floor at the George Calvert will never handle everyone. We’ll have to check out Loews. I’ll lose my deposit, of course, but…’
She turned to me and grinned, confident that I’d be agreeable. ‘You and Paul will take lessons, too, won’t you?’
I thought about the grand ballroom at the Loews Hotel, particularly the spacious atrium just off the lobby. I remembered it as it had looked for Dance for the Cure – glamorous ball gowns, sophisticated tuxedos, elegant couples tracing graceful circles around the dance floor. I imagined myself in flowing yellow chiffon, trailing feathers like Big Bird, my hair a-glitter with sequins, swirling around in Paul’s arms, light as air, characters straight out of Die Fledermaus.
A girl can dream.
‘I’ll put it to Prince Charming,’ I said, ‘but I’m not making any promises.’
‘It’s easy, Hannah. Lay down the law: no dancing, no sex.’
‘Har de har har. I better get myself to the grocery store then, and fix him something mouth-watering for dinner.’
Ruth hugged me, hard. ‘He will be putty in your hands.’
‘I’m not so sure about that.’
‘Bull. Your meat loaf is ambrosia. Nectar of the gods.’
‘Right,’ I said as I returned the phone book to its proper shelf. ‘Dab a little gravy behind my ears, and I’m irresistible.’
Maybe my plan would have worked better if I’d dabbed a little Chanel No.5 behind my ears rather than Eau de Boeuf.
‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Paul mumbled around his toothbrush and a foaming mouthful of Crest as we prepared for bed that evening.
I was perched on the lid of the toilet, my knees pulled all the way up under my nightgown, watching him brush.
‘You know I have two left feet,’ he said after he’d rinsed and spat.
‘I know that, but maybe if we took lessons…’ I jabbed a finger into my husband’s lean-mean stomach, emphasizing each word.
Paul laughed out loud, then grabbed my hand and pulled me off the chenille-covered seat toward him.
Standing on tiptoes, I gazed up into his face, admiring the laughter lines that creased his lightly stubbled cheeks. ‘Aren’t mathematicians supposed to be musical?’
‘There’s a high correlation between math and music, true, but there are exceptions to every rule. And sad to say, I am one.’ He kissed the top of my head.
‘Come on, Paul. It’s only one night a week. Surely you can manage that.’
He held me at arm’s length and squinted at me suspiciously. ‘Which night?’
‘I don’t know yet,’ I said, hedging my bets. ‘Ruth and I are going to check out the studio tomorrow.’
‘Can’t we just rent a video?’
I glanced at my husband. Sneaky Paul, looking for a loophole.
‘Where’s the fun in that?’ I explained about the orchestra, and about Ruth’s plan to make hers the Annapolis wedding of the year, if not the decade, with society page coverage in the Baltimore Sun and Washington Post, even if she had to pay for it. ‘Suppose I get Connie and Dennis to take lessons, too?’
Paul grunted.
‘We can make it a family affair,’ I added, hopefully.
‘Dennis?’ Paul snorted. ‘Surely cops are far too busy putting away criminals to take time out for dance lessons.’
I saw my opening, and played my ace. ‘If Dennis agrees, will you agree, too?’
Paul turned me around and nudged me gently in the direction of the bedroom.
‘Well?’ I shot a hopeful glance over my shoulder.
‘I’m thinking, I’m thinking.’
In the semi-darkness of our bedroom, I slithered under the covers. ‘You know what Ruth suggested, darling?’
Paul slipped between the sheets and stretched out his arm to turn off the bedside lamp. ‘What?’
‘No sex ‘til you dance,’ I said as I pulled the duvet under my chin.
‘Always helpful, your sister.’
A few minutes later, Paul’s kiss told me all I needed to know.
I nibbled on his ear. ‘I’ll take that as a yes, then, Professor Ives.’
Two
Ruth burst into my kitchen the following morning, armed with a list of dance studios, if you call three a list, and printouts with information about each. She spread them out on the table in front of her.
‘I thought we’d decided on J & K Studios,’ I complained, setting a mug of steaming black coffee on the table beside her. ‘Yesterday afternoon. Remember?’ The studio had been so supportive of Dance for the Cure that I wanted to steer a little business their way.
Ruth picked up her mug and sipped carefully. ‘Well, yes, but when I got home, I thought I’d better do a bit of research. Just to make sure.’
‘Make sure of what?’ I asked, feeling a bit miffed that my advice about J & K Studios was being ignored.
‘To make sure that Hutch won’t be disappointed,’ she said. ‘He competed in college, so I figure he’s going to be a little bit picky about instructors.’
‘A serious competitor?’
‘Won all kinds of trophies.’ Ruth beamed at me over the rim of her mug. ‘His mother keeps calling from Nebraska to ask if he wants them.’ She laughed. ‘She’s turning his bedroom into an office.’
‘What’s her hurry? Hutch hasn’t lived at home for – what? – fifteen years.’
‘She’s threatening to give them all to Goodwill. Anyway…’ She hurried on before I could wedge a word in. ‘When I got home, I sat down and Googled all the Annapolis area dance studios. This one in Glen Burnie, for example.’ She read off an address that I knew must be located in one of the clusters of car dealerships and strip malls that lined Route 2 the entire twenty-some blighted miles from Annapolis to the Baltimore beltway.